Yup. I'm goin' to Hell for this.
Jan. 24th, 2004 02:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
camwynJust a little something that'll get properly placed in Hellblazer: Hogwarts when I get there.
John Constantine stepped out of the Headmaster's office, shaking his head. Well, he'd finagled himself a place right enough. He needed one, badly. It'd be a year before the stars came around right again for him to blast open the way back to his own world. He hadn't the time, nor the money, to find a more mundane way of living until then. No, it was magical employment or nothing if he was going to make it here. At least he didn't have to worry about the forces of Hell; as far as he could tell, neither they nor their opposite number had any kind of influence on mortal life whatsoever.
He'd told Dumbledore bloody near everything he'd ever had to do, good and bad alike, and the old geezer had just smiled and smiled and kept on smiling. Dumbledore, it seemed, knew when John was telling the truth and when he was just bullshitting. Dammit, that was annoying, you'd think he'd have been properly impressed. . . well, no, John had to admit some people were just like that. And the old wizard had been impressed. Impressed enough to sign an unknown quantity, a man with no documented existence that searches mundane or magical could verify, to a contract as a full-time instructor. There weren't any demons here, Dumbledore had said, but there was darkness aplenty of a much more common sort. Hell didn't have to exist anywhere except the human heart in order to put people's lives and souls in danger. John would do, he said; John knew his business.
There was just one catch.
"This is a school, Mr. Constantine," Dumbledore had said. "We teach children here. Our professors are expected to maintain a certain level of dignity. For as long as you are acting in a professorial capacity- and in practical terms we will say that this means 'as long as you are on the Hogwarts school grounds outside your own quarters'- you may not swear, nor smoke, nor become intoxicated. What you do in your own time is your own business, but you will refrain from such behaviour in the presence, or possible presence, of the students here."
He'd agreed. He didn't have much choice. The ethics clause had gone into the contract almost exactly as Dumbledore had spoken it- one of those animated quills had taken down the entire thing. Bloody useful things, those. John made a mental note to buy one with his first paycheque- no, they paid in gold here, didn't they? Yeah, gold and silver and bronze, bally strange if you asked him. With another shake of the head, he headed down the hallway Dumbledore had said led to his quarters in the castle.
Two minutes later he was lost. It wasn't the moving staircases, he could deal with those; it was simple unfamiliarity with the place's layout, and utter lack of any kind of map. He tried to retrace his steps, intending to find someone to ask directions of, only to find that he'd gotten even further turned around than before. He was pretty sure he'd passed that one-eyed hag statue coming from the other direction a while back, but would've sworn it was on a different floor entirely then.
Leaning back against the wall, he closed his eyes. "This is bollocks," he muttered. "I need a goddamn smoke-"
"AAAH AHAHAHAHA!"
The shriek of laughter jerked John upright. Floating just in front of him- just in front of him, inside the bad breath zone- was the ugliest grin he'd ever seen. It was sprawled across the face of someone he didn't recognise, but given that the person was floating in mid-air and wearing clothes that'd make an American golfer cry, he reckoned it was the poltergeist he'd been warned about. "What's so funny?" John demanded.
"Couldn't do it, could he? Wasn't even five minutes!" The poltergeist- Peeves, John remembered- cackled and did a backwards somersault in mid-air. "Saw your contract! No swearing on the school grounds, John Constantine!"
"Oh, bugger-"
"Did it again!" Peeves pointed at John and laughed so hard he floated halfway across the corridor. "Dumbledore ought to know of this, he ought. New teacher's as bad as the students! Peeves heard!"
With an enormous effort of will John restrained himself from doing more than rolling his eyes. "I suppose you did," he said, his tone deceptively mild. "What would it take for you not to have heard it?"
Peeves stopped laughing, but the wicked grin remained as he folded his hands under his chin and stared at John. "Don't know," he said, almost thoughtfully. "Never been bribed before. What've you got, Professor?"
John started to pat down his pockets, mind racing. It wasn't as if he had been carrying much when he'd been cast into this bloody world, but maybe-
"GAH!" he cried as everything suddenly went wet and icy cold. The naff bastard had been concealing a water balloon!
"Never been bribed before! Never will!" Peeves cried, handspringing from wall to ceiling to wall. He let out another high-pitched string of giggles.
John gritted his teeth, pushing his sodden hair out of his eyes. That bloody poltergeist was still bouncing around nice as you please, sing-songing something he couldn't quite make out save to grasp that it was very insulting. Here, had it just flipped John off? "You! Peeves!" he called out, hand dipping into his pocket.
Peeves stopped in midair, smirking at John through his legs.
Taking a deep breath, John plastered a smile across his face. "Got something for you," he said.
Cocking an eye at John, Peeves started to speak. It didn't happen. In two heroic strides John crossed the space between himself and the poltergeist, hand already drawing back as he moved. The brass knucks he'd stashed in his pocket that morning smashed into Peeves' nose with all the force the man could muster, sending the pest somersaulting end-over-end down the corridor and out of John's sight.
Exhaling, John slipped the knucks off. He'd forgotten about the ghosts. He'd have to be more careful.
*****
As John finally found his way back to the Great Hall, something made a soft, insistent noise just behind his shoulder. Sighing, he turned and found himself face-to-face with a proper ghost. This one looked considerably older than the far more solid Peeves, and wore robes of an older fashion than any John had seen so far. They glimmered with silvery, ectoplasmic bloodstains as the ghost blinked his blank, staring eyes. "Professor Constantine?" it whispered in a voice almost too quiet to hear.
"That's me," said John warily.
The ghost's mouth twitched as if it had forgotten quite how to smile. "Congratulations," it murmured.
"On what?" John asked. He doubted it was about the job.
"On the events of the second-floor corridor." The ghost folded its hands serenely. "It would appear there are now two at this school whom Peeves fears." And with that, the ghost dropped through the floor, its message apparently delivered. John made another mental note to keep an eye out for the things, and underlined it several times while he was at it.
He looked up from the spot where the ghost had disappeared and saw a cluster of perhaps five or six students- third years, by the look of 'em- staring at him with eyes the size of saucers. "What're you looking at?" he growled. "Can't a man have a conversation with the dead and not get stared at around here?"
One of the kids, a pale girl with pigtailed blonde hair, bit her bottom lip. "Nnnn- not with the Bloody Baron, sir. . ."
God, John wanted a smoke.
John Constantine stepped out of the Headmaster's office, shaking his head. Well, he'd finagled himself a place right enough. He needed one, badly. It'd be a year before the stars came around right again for him to blast open the way back to his own world. He hadn't the time, nor the money, to find a more mundane way of living until then. No, it was magical employment or nothing if he was going to make it here. At least he didn't have to worry about the forces of Hell; as far as he could tell, neither they nor their opposite number had any kind of influence on mortal life whatsoever.
He'd told Dumbledore bloody near everything he'd ever had to do, good and bad alike, and the old geezer had just smiled and smiled and kept on smiling. Dumbledore, it seemed, knew when John was telling the truth and when he was just bullshitting. Dammit, that was annoying, you'd think he'd have been properly impressed. . . well, no, John had to admit some people were just like that. And the old wizard had been impressed. Impressed enough to sign an unknown quantity, a man with no documented existence that searches mundane or magical could verify, to a contract as a full-time instructor. There weren't any demons here, Dumbledore had said, but there was darkness aplenty of a much more common sort. Hell didn't have to exist anywhere except the human heart in order to put people's lives and souls in danger. John would do, he said; John knew his business.
There was just one catch.
"This is a school, Mr. Constantine," Dumbledore had said. "We teach children here. Our professors are expected to maintain a certain level of dignity. For as long as you are acting in a professorial capacity- and in practical terms we will say that this means 'as long as you are on the Hogwarts school grounds outside your own quarters'- you may not swear, nor smoke, nor become intoxicated. What you do in your own time is your own business, but you will refrain from such behaviour in the presence, or possible presence, of the students here."
He'd agreed. He didn't have much choice. The ethics clause had gone into the contract almost exactly as Dumbledore had spoken it- one of those animated quills had taken down the entire thing. Bloody useful things, those. John made a mental note to buy one with his first paycheque- no, they paid in gold here, didn't they? Yeah, gold and silver and bronze, bally strange if you asked him. With another shake of the head, he headed down the hallway Dumbledore had said led to his quarters in the castle.
Two minutes later he was lost. It wasn't the moving staircases, he could deal with those; it was simple unfamiliarity with the place's layout, and utter lack of any kind of map. He tried to retrace his steps, intending to find someone to ask directions of, only to find that he'd gotten even further turned around than before. He was pretty sure he'd passed that one-eyed hag statue coming from the other direction a while back, but would've sworn it was on a different floor entirely then.
Leaning back against the wall, he closed his eyes. "This is bollocks," he muttered. "I need a goddamn smoke-"
"AAAH AHAHAHAHA!"
The shriek of laughter jerked John upright. Floating just in front of him- just in front of him, inside the bad breath zone- was the ugliest grin he'd ever seen. It was sprawled across the face of someone he didn't recognise, but given that the person was floating in mid-air and wearing clothes that'd make an American golfer cry, he reckoned it was the poltergeist he'd been warned about. "What's so funny?" John demanded.
"Couldn't do it, could he? Wasn't even five minutes!" The poltergeist- Peeves, John remembered- cackled and did a backwards somersault in mid-air. "Saw your contract! No swearing on the school grounds, John Constantine!"
"Oh, bugger-"
"Did it again!" Peeves pointed at John and laughed so hard he floated halfway across the corridor. "Dumbledore ought to know of this, he ought. New teacher's as bad as the students! Peeves heard!"
With an enormous effort of will John restrained himself from doing more than rolling his eyes. "I suppose you did," he said, his tone deceptively mild. "What would it take for you not to have heard it?"
Peeves stopped laughing, but the wicked grin remained as he folded his hands under his chin and stared at John. "Don't know," he said, almost thoughtfully. "Never been bribed before. What've you got, Professor?"
John started to pat down his pockets, mind racing. It wasn't as if he had been carrying much when he'd been cast into this bloody world, but maybe-
"GAH!" he cried as everything suddenly went wet and icy cold. The naff bastard had been concealing a water balloon!
"Never been bribed before! Never will!" Peeves cried, handspringing from wall to ceiling to wall. He let out another high-pitched string of giggles.
John gritted his teeth, pushing his sodden hair out of his eyes. That bloody poltergeist was still bouncing around nice as you please, sing-songing something he couldn't quite make out save to grasp that it was very insulting. Here, had it just flipped John off? "You! Peeves!" he called out, hand dipping into his pocket.
Peeves stopped in midair, smirking at John through his legs.
Taking a deep breath, John plastered a smile across his face. "Got something for you," he said.
Cocking an eye at John, Peeves started to speak. It didn't happen. In two heroic strides John crossed the space between himself and the poltergeist, hand already drawing back as he moved. The brass knucks he'd stashed in his pocket that morning smashed into Peeves' nose with all the force the man could muster, sending the pest somersaulting end-over-end down the corridor and out of John's sight.
Exhaling, John slipped the knucks off. He'd forgotten about the ghosts. He'd have to be more careful.
*****
As John finally found his way back to the Great Hall, something made a soft, insistent noise just behind his shoulder. Sighing, he turned and found himself face-to-face with a proper ghost. This one looked considerably older than the far more solid Peeves, and wore robes of an older fashion than any John had seen so far. They glimmered with silvery, ectoplasmic bloodstains as the ghost blinked his blank, staring eyes. "Professor Constantine?" it whispered in a voice almost too quiet to hear.
"That's me," said John warily.
The ghost's mouth twitched as if it had forgotten quite how to smile. "Congratulations," it murmured.
"On what?" John asked. He doubted it was about the job.
"On the events of the second-floor corridor." The ghost folded its hands serenely. "It would appear there are now two at this school whom Peeves fears." And with that, the ghost dropped through the floor, its message apparently delivered. John made another mental note to keep an eye out for the things, and underlined it several times while he was at it.
He looked up from the spot where the ghost had disappeared and saw a cluster of perhaps five or six students- third years, by the look of 'em- staring at him with eyes the size of saucers. "What're you looking at?" he growled. "Can't a man have a conversation with the dead and not get stared at around here?"
One of the kids, a pale girl with pigtailed blonde hair, bit her bottom lip. "Nnnn- not with the Bloody Baron, sir. . ."
God, John wanted a smoke.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2004-01-23 11:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-24 12:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-24 07:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-25 01:22 pm (UTC)-M
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Date: 2004-01-24 06:48 am (UTC)This is waaay funny. I can't wait to "see" John in robes! LOL!
I would suppose that he could smoke and drink in the privacy of his own quarters, as long as no students were there. Poor John, I know what it's like to be DESPERATE for a smoke! :)
no subject
Date: 2004-01-24 07:44 am (UTC)More than the robes, I'm trying to work out what it's like when John goes to Mr. Ollivander's. So much potential trouble there.
no subject
Date: 2004-01-24 08:02 am (UTC)You know, I must say I did like the "diary" form you used before. I think it works for what you're trying to do. First-person narration works so much better for Constantine; it's got that Raymond-Chandler-goes-to-England film-noir thing going for it, and it plays up the difference between John's England and Harry's England. It's also more difficult to sustain his voice when you're trying to do third-person descriptions and exposition. If you write as if John is speaking, you can use the kind of incomplete sentences and informal language he uses without worrying about how it works with exposition and narration.
I hope you don't mind me commenting like this - you've simply come up with a fabulous idea, one that, to be honest, I wish I'd come up with myself (*sheepish*) and I think you can do so much with it! If I'm being annoying just tell me to sod off. I'm a big girl, I can take it. :)
no subject
Date: 2004-01-24 08:35 am (UTC)It's all right. I've been debating the question of 'John's diary' versus 'John's story' for a while now. (My brain has a tendency to grab hold of ideas and beat them completely to death before letting them go. Some days it's no fun living in my head.) I've been writing another character's diary for quite some time now- see my Diary of a Mountie posts and the
I have a certain amount of experience maintaining 'voices' as I write; true, it's not always in third person format (my Alaska ghost story, 'The Price', is told from the point of view of an old trucker directly addressing a younger trucker), but it's left me well acquainted with the challenges of keeping the right sound and narration up. I have no experience writing Hellblazer fanfic, but I do have a character with what I'm told is a very similar outlook and way of thinking. If you don't mind an enormous amount of profanity check out this link, which features a very cranky Vancouver police detective named Wayne Zhuang in a writing exercise I did involving describing a murder or murder scene. It can be a touch difficult to keep up, true, but I find I'm more confident working with that than the diary format.
On the third hand (here I am thinking of a statue of Ganesh I saw once, which only had three hands), I am playing in an LJ-based Harry Potter roleplaying game. Characters are encouraged to post in their own journals as if they were writing 'em themselves, then write in third person narrative format in the game group's journal. I had thought I might work out a compromise a bit like that- particularly ugly bits of connecting story could be easily covered by another one of John's notes from the field. Or something. Not sure.
We'll see how it works out. If I can keep up the voice in third person, I'm likely to do that. I do intend to do the 'notes from the field' if only for my own personal reference. We'll see which style turns out to be most useful.
Okay, um, I blathered enough for that comment, didn't I?
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Date: 2004-01-24 06:55 am (UTC)Keep this one up!
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Date: 2004-01-24 09:28 am (UTC)KEEP GOING. I want to know what happens next!
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Date: 2004-01-24 09:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-24 10:29 pm (UTC)(And by the bye, did that "Fellowship of the Sue" thing ever get written?)
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Date: 2004-01-24 06:12 pm (UTC)